


Just Empty Words

by toesohnoes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes John three years to track Sherlock down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Empty Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written at my [Tumblr](http://toestastegood-fic.tumblr.com/post/16475028021/john-finally-tracks-sherlock-down-hes-been).

John finally tracks Sherlock down. He’s been searching for months, following a trail that he began to think might not even exist outside of his own mind. Now he finds him sitting peacefully beside a fire, his eyes close, his face serene.

“Sit down, John,” Sherlock says.

The sound of his voice is nearly enough to make John’s knees go weak. He’d forgotten. After so many years, he’d almost forgotten just what Sherlock’s voice had sounded like. His throat aches like he’s swallowed something solid and unpleasant. He doesn’t take a seat.

“It’s been three years,” he says. His voice doesn’t shake. His face doesn’t show a single hint, and that in itself is revealing. “Three years.”

“I’m well aware of the passage of time.” Sherlock opens his eyes and uses his gaze like a weapon. It has always been sharp enough to cut. “I thought you might find me sooner than this.”

John shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this on me.” He wants to grab Sherlock and shake him; he wants to punch him in the face; he wants to drag him home again and make him promise never to leave. “I thought you were dead.”

He hates the sound of his own voice. He sounds strangled and detatched, as dead inside as he accuses Sherlock of being. His throat feels as if someone has clawed at it. He’s been mourning for years for Sherlock. Ever since that moment he watched Sherlock fall, there has been a solid weight on top of his chest, holding him down, crushing the life out of him. It had all been for nothing.

Sherlock’s expression twitches, a twinge of emotion that he doesn’t seem to be able to hide. “What do you expect me to say?” he demands.

John looks away from him for a moment, staring into the fire instead. Since he had found out about the possibility that Sherlock had survived, he has imagined so many scenarios in which he found him. None of them had gone like this; none of them had been so bloody difficult.

“You could apologise,” he suggests. “I know that’s unlikely, but it would be a start.”

He looks back to meet Sherlock’s gaze defiantly. It takes a moment, but Sherlock leans forward in his armchair and then reaches out to take hold of John’s hand. His grip is cold but gentle. With the faintest pull, Sherlock gets him to sit down. “I _am_ sorry,” he says.

It’s heart-felt enough to make John need to close his eyes.

“Damn you,” he mutters, angry at himself, angry at them both. “Damn it all.”


End file.
